Who steals my Newspaper?

The green boil on my frozen wrist looked funny, but not the nurse who stared at me lustfully. I divided my attention between the purple tube light, my green boil and the nurse. It was a blue night, I thought, then looked at my ‘greeny’ and giggled. Confused with so many colours, I decided to focus on the nurse. Why does this hospital have purple tube lights? My boil would have looked sexy if it was purple too. Oh yeah, the nurse, there was something wrong with her appearance. She had the right proportion of mass at the right places, but why didn’t she have a human head? She was like ‘picture-in-picture’ of National Geographic and Doordarshan. Neck and above she was a blown up owl face, below she was Mumtaz Begum. A sudden gush of rotten colourful odour filled the air, and I turned around to see my father-in-law. He looked like an overgrown version of Mowgli in a faulty television set. I guess the green boil on my wrist could smell the red stench too, it turned red. I burst out laughing. The father in law, walked closer and poisoned me with good news- “Congrats. You are a father of twin zebras.”

Now you know why I wake up confused? These dreams, sometimes are such distractions that I tend to concentrate, focus and work on these distractions so much that distractions are no more distractions; daily chores become a distraction, and somebody stealing my newspaper becomes a distraction to my distractions that it is no more a distraction but a daily chore, until it fucked up my mind and became a daily whore. Right? Anyway, who steals my newspaper from my door? When I asked my newspaper guy about this, he made a ‘Barbie’ out of his face, and asked with leaking innocence – “ Why would a newspaper guy steal a newspaper, sir?” Though that didn’t make any sense, I thought I should give him the benefit of doubt. So, then, who? I had to strike out Sreesanth from the top of the list because I must confess, with age I have become wiser and I realize that it only makes sense that my next door neighbour seemed more likely.

Being a bachelour neighbour to a family is never easy. I mean, I’m not a rapist, I was’t attending any of Osama’s board meetings, I wasn’t the Joker in ‘Dark Knight ’ either, yet they treat me like that. I walk out of the door, the ladies of the house grab their children and run indoors and the man of the house stares at me like Officer Pradyuman. So, in that case, how do I gain the courage and actually open my mouth to ask them- “Did you steal my newspaper?” For all I know, an army of commandoes might land up, surround the apartment with one guy screaming his lungs out to the speaker- “Where's Osama, Arjun? ” and me screaming out- "He's dead bastard" before a bullet enters private property. So, can’t gather my balls together; hence I refrain. It must be Sreesanth only.

Well, thinking hard, I come up with another lady contender; the lady who picks up garbage, more sweetly known as the ‘Garbage lady’. The very first day in this flat, she almost kicked me out of sleep with a long press on the door bell. I opened the door to her, and I suddenly got an eerie feeling that I’ve seen her crying on Star Plus. Anyway, she asked me, as if politeness just bungee jumped out of her head and went for a stroll – “Naya hai kya?” I gave her a dumb ‘Yes’, by that I turned the key to her ‘dadagiri’. She informed that the dry waste and the liquid waste should be kept separate, else she will bring a group of ten and stuff my broken pieces into gunny bags. Not really, she threatened me with a Rs. 200 fine. Since then, every time I bump into her, I give her that sheepish ‘See-I-kept-it-separate-na’ look. So, basically I can’t think of questioning her if she is stealing my newspaper. It’s definitely Sreesanth.

Well, like the nurse, I must maybe stop being an owl, wake up early, maybe paint myself like zebras and keep a secret vigil. Nah! I’m pretty sure it’s Sreesanth!